


A Private Celebration

by Curator



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: F/M, Personal Growth, a commenter called Janeway BAMF!Kathryn here and I'm in love with that, and profanity, not a J/C happy ending, this is about Kathryn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-25
Updated: 2019-03-30
Packaged: 2019-12-07 20:06:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18239609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Curator/pseuds/Curator
Summary: Chapter 1: Kathryn Janeway records her personal log after her promotion to admiral. Amid the daddy issues and bad jokes, glimpse a purposeful metamorphosis. Then, someone interrupts and demands Kathryn explain everything.Chapter 2: Mark Johnson writes in his journal to reflect on Kathryn’s promotion ceremony.Chapter 3: Phoebe Janeway writes in her diary about her sister’s homecoming and entry into the admiralty.(Note: Chapters 2 and 3 are inspired byRosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead, so enjoy ah-ha moments.)





	1. Kathryn

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to purpledog for encouragement and a very early beta. Tremendous gratitude to Klugtiger for virtually holding my hand and enduring my constant tinkering as she betaed and betaed and betaed — this story is a thousand times better because of you.
> 
> * * *
> 
> It's my life  
> It's now or never  
> I ain't gonna live forever  
> I just want to live while I'm alive  
> — “It's My Life” by Bon Jovi

Kathryn Janeway, personal log, stardate 55061.4

I was promoted to admiral today.

Daddy’s rank. 

Her rank.

My rank.

Mom and Phoebe stood there clapping, their mouths twisted into what they thought were smiles. I remember that trick — the Starfleet family’s facade of pride.

When Admiral Paris affixed those bars to my collar, I bowed my head in appreciation. That was real. As real as exiting that stage, sprinting to the washroom, and retching until there was nothing left.

Computer, pause recording.

•••

Computer, resume.

Before the ceremony, I told Mom and Phoebe not to worry. No chance I’ll encounter a polar ice cap. It was a joke. Psychiatric grounding. No off-world missions until clearance.

The Ocampans ran out of the Caretaker’s energy supply two years ago.

Computer, pause recording.

•••

Computer, resume.

Mark was there. Starfleet, the institution I have held in the highest esteem for my entire life, didn’t bother to update next of kin records and officially invited him as my fiancé.

And he attended.

Alone.

He found me in the washroom, of course. He offered me a breath mint. I declined. He said it was from Risa. I accepted. He locked the washroom door.

God, I missed that man.

Computer, pause recording.

•••

Computer, resume

The technician put me in the flag officer database as Admiral K. Janeway and amended my father’s service record to Admiral E. Janeway.

I gave you a service record update, Daddy. You’ve been dead for twenty years. The Grand Canyon is “Earth’s biggest ditch,” though, right? Nothing impresses you.

I wonder if she still cared about that, too.

Computer, pause recording.

•••

Computer, resume.

I am proud to uphold Starfleet ideals in the Delta Quadrant. Alpha Quadrant. Whatever.

Fuck.

Computer, pause recording.

•••

Computer, resume.

Why doesn’t the flag officer database include first names? Is my first name a security risk?

Hmm. “Admiral O. Paris” sounds like an Irish name. “Admiral O’Paris, top o’ the mornin’ to ye.” Oh fuck; I need to delete that Sullivan shit before the refit engineers get in there.

Computer, pause recording.

•••

Computer, resume.

Seven years. Seven years. Seven years.

I understand why twenty-three years gutted her. She lied to me, though. She fucking lied to me. Yes, she probably did come back to save Tuvok and Chakotay and Seven and those twenty-two crew members. She just didn’t tell the rest of it — she came back to save herself.

I would have lied to me, too. Damn, after just seven years in that chair, I was so far gone.

I’m not going to waste this chance.

Computer, pause recording.

•••

Computer, resume and encrypt.

On Monday, I’m supposed to be briefed on some admiral’s-eyes-only disasterfuck of a thing called spore drive. But first, I’m going to sit in my new office.

Mahogany desk.

Reclining chair.

Floor-to-ceiling window view of the Starfleet Academy calisthenics course.

Whoever assigned me that office is a fucking angel. I hereby promise you, angel, I will never see stars through that window.

I wonder if it’s the same office they assigned her. No — it doesn’t matter. It’s mine, not hers.

When I think about my career and my choices, I realize I was —

Oh, shit.

Computer, pause re—

**Command not recognized.**

_Kathryn!_

What the hell, Chakotay? You don’t chime for entry anymore?

_I would if I thought you’d let me in. Fortunately, your apartment entry code was easy to guess._

I’ll change it.

_You’ve ignored me for weeks, Kathryn. I’m worried about you. We need to talk._

No, we don’t.

 _Is this Aldebaran whiskey?_ _How much have you had to drink?_

Not enough.

_I thought I would get to chat with you privately after your promotion this afternoon. But then I saw how unsteady you were walking off that stage. I was concerned, so I followed you. You weren’t drunk, though. I don’t know what you were._

I was fine.

_You were in that washroom with Mark for forty-five minutes._

That sounds about right.

_Kathryn, he’s a married man._

Yes, he is. Is that all you came here to talk about?

_No, that’s not all. I broke up with Seven and —_

Well, if you’re looking for another blonde Borg aficionado, Admiral Shelby is newly divorced and quite a catch.

_Are you listening to me?_

Yes. Cheers.

_What’s wrong with you?_

I’m drinking while I wait for you to leave.

_Why?_

This was a private celebration.

_Celebration? You're celebrating your promotion by getting drunk by yourself?_

You’ve got it. My promotion, my wake, my rebirth — it’s all today and I’m celebrating everything. Cheers, again.

_I don’t understand._

I don’t have to explain.

_The sooner you actually talk to me, the sooner I’ll leave your apartment._

A diplomatic solution? Fine. You see, Chakotay, sometimes three ghosts visit and we learn the true meaning of Christmas. Other times, a grey-haired crone shows up and I realize I could have died in a chair on a starship and no one would have noticed because I was still walking and talking and drinking tea. Tea, Chakotay. So, after that, I wake up and I make plans to ensure I never see that crone again, especially not in the mirror. Because that’s what was going to happen to me. That was my path.

_But you accepted the promotion._

You’re damn right I accepted the promotion — sixteen years before she did. That’s going to be the difference. This promotion is air in my lungs when I was suffocating in the vacuum of space.

_You weren’t suffocating, Kathryn._

Don’t you dare tell me what I was or wasn’t doing! If she hadn’t changed the timeline, you would have let me die out there.

_You can’t hold me responsible for something I didn’t do._

Oh, yes, I can, because it was already starting. She just proved you would have let it continue until you were sitting next to a corpse every day on that bridge — if you sat next to me at all.

_No! I would have tried to help you._

Then you would have failed. You would have done it wrong, just like you did in our timeline.  

_What?_

“You're not alone, Kathryn.” That’s what you said even though I had the weight of that entire ship and crew on my shoulders.

_I wanted to share that weight with you. You didn’t have to be alone._

If we didn't get home, would people say "Captain Janeway and Commander Chakotay failed"? No. There was one captain of _Voyager_ — me. I had the training. I had the responsibility. And, you know what, when we got home, I had the breakdown. Now, I’m better and I’ve got my promotion and I’ve got my apartment and I’ve got my plans and you can go “share” whatever you want with someone else.

_I didn’t know you had a breakdown._

It wasn’t your concern.

_I’ve tried to contact you every day since we got home._

And I’ve deleted every one of your messages.

_The computer said you didn’t even read them. That’s not like you._

You’re right. It’s not.

_But why? Because of a working relationship that’s over? Because of a timeline that no longer exists?_

You know why. You know the distance was growing between us those last few months. Say what you like, but we both know the gap only would have widened if the grey-haired Ghost of Kathryn Future hadn’t shown up to rescue us. I know you and I were friends —

_We could have been more than friends and you know that. Don’t you remember?_

Oh, yes. I’ve had the opportunity to reflect since we’ve been home. I’ve thought about how we would talk and the ways we grew to care for one another. But, I’ve also thought about our arguments and how we hurt each other. I’ve thought about how you always wanted the safe path while I like to take action. We were a good balance for a command team, Chakotay, we were good for friendship out there, but not for what I want now.

_Kathryn, don’t you care about —_

No. Whatever you’re going to say, Chakotay, I don’t care about it. Right now, all I care about is myself. I didn’t get to care about myself for seven years. She didn’t get to care about herself for twenty-three years and it broke her. It nearly broke me. But I won’t let it. So, I’m going to work hard at my desk at HQ, and then I’m going to set my commbadge for priority messages only and I’m going to do whatever the hell I want. Velocity. Tennis. Meeting new people. Reading. Dancing. Maybe I’ll finally learn an instrument. My sister said she’ll teach me how to paint. I’m going to do all that and more because I refuse to continue to be defined by my rank. I refuse to put anyone else’s needs before my own. And I sure as hell refuse to be another Admiral Janeway who lets a Starfleet career be a cause of death before I actually fucking die!

_Kathryn —_

Now, was there anything else you wanted to discuss?

_I want to help you._

That topic has been covered and dismissed.

_That’s all I want._

And, tonight, I wanted to celebrate alone and a little drunk. We’ve talked, so now you need to hold up your end of the deal and go. I wish you the best in your classes at the academy and in your personal life.

_How did you know I —_

Goodbye, Chakotay.

_Goodbye, Kathryn. I hope you find what you’re looking for._

I hope so, too. God, I hope so, too….

Computer — oh, shit. Computer, delete in-progress personal log entry.

 

Kathryn Janeway, personal log, stardate 55061.8

I was promoted to admiral. For the first time in a long time, I’m excited about my future. Things don’t look so — grey — anymore.

End log entry.


	2. Mark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mark Johnson writes in his journal to reflect on Kathryn’s promotion ceremony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More than 75,000 thank yous to Devovere for betaing chapters 2 and 3. Her thoughtfulness and suggestions — especially one, key idea — have been tremendously beneficial.

Mark Johnson, journal entry, stardate 55061.4

Clearly, it was a clerical error. “Starfleet invites you to attend the promotion ceremony of your fiancé Kathryn Janeway …”

Carla said it would be good for me. Go, she said, see the conclusion of the three-week mission that lasted seven years. “I told you what Kath and I used to do at these things,” I replied. Carla said she trusted me.

I wanted her to be right.

I’ve told Carla a lot about Kath over the years, including Kath’s distaste for “goodbye.” A kiss blown over subspace or a quick embrace in person, and then she would be gone.

I went to the ceremony to say goodbye to the woman I once loved. Did I have a tiny box in my pocket, too? Yes. I told myself I was bringing it to remind Kath of the good old days. She could take it home and use it however she liked.

I saw Gretchen and Phoebe up front. I found a seat in the back. 

Kath stumbled off the stage. Phoebe turned and saw me go.

When I opened the door to the washroom — the same one from her last two promotions — I heard Kath’s breath catch.

“How many rounds?” I asked. 

“Four so far. What the hell are you doing here?”

I explained the mistaken invitation. She groaned and vomited again. “Should I take that one personally?” I asked. She said no.

Her hair was shorter and darker. Otherwise, she just looked tired, forehead resting against the curve of the commode, legs splayed, knuckles tipped against the floor.

She turned and looked at me. Her eyes. What happened to her out there?

”I brought you something.” I held the box out to her. She gave me the raised eyebrow. 

“No.” 

“It’s from Risa.” I want to believe I was encouraging her to smile at the memory, take the box, and go home.

She stood and straightened her uniform. Her gaze went from my face to my shoes and then stayed just below my stomach. “You son of a bitch. Yes.”

My mind lurched to her promotion to commander. To help her stop heaving, I’d given her a mint from the box the guy at work had pressed into my hand saying “to celebrate with your girlfriend.” I had thought the stories about Risa were overblown -- until I saw what the mint did to her. Yes, we did the same thing on purpose when she made captain, but we were engaged then.

I slammed back to the present when Kath took the box from my hand and said, “This is my last big promotion. Understand?”

I could have explained. Instead, I locked the door. 

It was a tumble of the familiar and the new. Our bodies were softer, our endurances shorter, our climaxes gentler — even with the effects of the mints. When I held her afterward, even her trembles were different. I kissed her forehead and asked if she was OK. She replied, “Just coming back to life.”

What the hell happened to her out there?

I told her I spent our wedding day petitioning Starfleet to continue to press the Cardassian government for any information about her ship. She told me she spent it pleading through a micowormhole for a Romulan to deliver messages from her crew to Starfleet. 

“It always comes back to Starfleet, doesn’t it?” I said. 

“Not anymore.”

What the fuck happened to her out there?

I finally asked. She turned those haunted eyes to me and said she didn’t want to talk about it. I told her I started journaling when she went missing and it helped me. She said she would try.

We dressed and then embraced as friends.

When I got home, Carla asked me if I was glad I went. I felt heat on my ears. I told her it was good to see Kath but I was surprised how much she had changed. I always had described Kath to Carla as someone with a glint in her eyes that meant adventure was coming. 

God, I missed that woman. 

Do I feel guilty that I cheated on my wife? Yes. Carla saved my life as an adult as profoundly as Kath did when we were kids. I love Carla. I’ve never broken my marriage vow before and I’ll never break it again.

Would I change what I did? I don’t know. Kath and I deserved a goodbye, and we finally got one. I talked with Carla and messaged with Kath and the three of us are going to have dinner on Thursday. Carla and I can offer Kath our friendship now with no reservations.

It’s a relief to know —

Carla just came in and teased me. “Every bit the philosopher,” she said, “sitting there writing with a pen on paper, a glass of red wine on your desk, the fireplace warming your study.” I tried to laugh with her. 

I needed to get my reflections out. With that done, I’ll be feeding these pages to the flames. 

 

Mark Johnson, journal entry, stardate 55061.8

I made peace with my past. For the first time in my life, I’m not in love with Kath Janeway. Things don’t feel so — unfinished — anymore.


	3. Phoebe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phoebe Janeway writes in her diary about her sister’s homecoming and entry into the admiralty.

Phoebe Janeway, diary, stardate 55061.4

I understand why Kathryn barfs at those big, fancy, promotion ceremonies. They make me feel sick, too. 

She and I used to sit in the audience with Mom when Dad got medals. Kathryn would pay attention, her back as straight as a cadet’s. I would slouch and try to focus on something, anything that wasn’t boring. Delta shields. Uniform fabric. Circles and stars in the Federation flag.

Anyway, the first time we actually went on the stage was for Dad’s funeral. Kathryn didn’t get out of bed for weeks after that, so I’m actually glad being back in that room only makes her puke. 

Still, someone would need to clean Kathryn up and there’s just one person I knew would be unfazed by the mess. I made some changes to the invitation I received and sent it to Mark from a fake Starfleet comm signal. I figured he would bring Carla and they would sit with Mom and me. When Kathryn did her I’m-not-gonna-fall walk off the stage, I resigned myself to having to go to the washroom, but then Mark popped up from the back row. 

I thought he would help her. I didn’t realize Kathryn and Mark would do their gross, post-promotion thing again.

Huh. “Kathryn and Mark.” That doesn’t even look right anymore. 

Seven years. Seven years. Seven years. 

She’s already doing a lot better, though. When she first came off that ship, she was all “yes, sir” to the admirals fawning over her, but she would barely talk to Mom or me. At first I was hurt, but then I realized Kathryn had been in command mode for so long, she couldn’t stop. 

She had a few hours of debriefing, then beamed home and picked at her dinner. After dessert, she closed her bedroom door.

Two days later, Admiral Paris commed Mom and said Kathryn had processed more than 150 crew reassignment and promotion orders in 36 hours. He could tell from the time indexes she hadn’t slept. The paperwork should have taken weeks to complete — and she hadn’t even been expected to start it yet. Admiral Paris had conferred with some doctor from the ship and they put Kathryn on a week of medical leave. When Mom, ever the Starfleet spouse, asked who should rewrite the crew orders, Admiral Paris said it wasn’t necessary. Kathryn had done everything perfectly. 

I was so proud of my mother when she took my sister’s computer away. 

Kathryn lost her shit for a few days. 

When she was able to listen to reason again, I convinced her to go on a walk with me. As we stepped along the familiar paths, Kathryn said she couldn’t wait for her promotion. No crew, she kept repeating. I said her crew must have been pretty awful for her to want to get away from them. For a second, I thought she was going to punch me. Then, she looked away. Just the opposite, she said, and added she knew she would have died for them in more ways than one. 

Die in more ways than one? Like Dad always said, when you’re a Starfleet officer, weird is part of the job. 

I told Kathryn she needed some sort of outlet and she should indulge some of her hobbies. She looked at me like I was speaking Breen. Or, I said, you could always let me teach you how to paint. I thought Kathryn would laugh but she said yes. 

All those years without her, and now —

A very tipsy Kathryn just commed me. She said someone was talking to her when she noticed her apartment walls are bare. She asked if I would make something to go over her couch. I said sure and what did she have in mind. She said something with all the colors, then she paused and said, except grey.

I’m going to rip out these diary pages and repurpose them into paper filigree on a big art piece for Kathryn!

 

Phoebe Janeway, diary, stardate 55061.8

I think I’m getting my sister back. For the first time in a long time, I’m excited about spending time with her. Things don’t seem so — distant — anymore.


End file.
